


The heart wants

by General_Button



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1750s AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:16:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/pseuds/General_Button
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the 1750s, the naval captain John Watson falls head over heels for the aristocrat Mr. Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The heart wants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [windandthehowl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=windandthehowl).



> At first, I thought, wow this is a great idea! 
> 
> This was a horrible idea. Why do I do this to myself? Anyway, I'm so sorry for the wait. This is my secret santa gift for windandthehowl on tumblr, who was very lovely in understanding why it was late (long, awful story, I assure you). She didn't have anything really specific on her blog, so I hope she likes 1750's pre-victorian AU.
> 
> There are probably a thousand inaccuracies, and I can only apologize for the style and writing I am about to botch horribly. Of course, it's not supposed to be really realistic for the time, it's meant to be short and sweet but sort of turned out really long, but at the same time not really that long?
> 
> Old piece, read at your own risk ;D

The first time he had set his eyes upon the prestigious form of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who had just come to live with his brother, John was certain he had never seen a man so beautiful. 

Mr. Holmes, of very distinguished, wealthy descent, was surrounded by glory—yet none could compare to his own visage. Slender and pale, contrasted by luscious dark curls, he stood stark and very different from his brother, whose hair was auburn and his face much more square, with a hooked nose. Mr. S. Holmes had a long face and a delicate nose, made more pronounced by his constant sniffing at the public—whom he found revolting at best. 

Adorned by an elegant blue-and-gold silk coat (so dark it was nearly black) and pure white breeches that clung to his very skin, he was the picture of aristocratic elegance. John Watson, naval Captain and under the King's gracious rule, could hardly be placed into the same category. 

John found himself lucky to be wearing his sharp uniform the day Mr. Holmes' eyes swept across his way for the first time. He wanted to smile, to capture his attention in a way that might be unique and of interest (for people frequently lamented the fact that he complained of being bored by _everyone_ ), but watched his eyes uselessly slide past, showing no further interest than to scrutinize his uniform. John's heart swiftened with desire as he watched Mr. Holmes stride away with his brother. 

\---

John was a high-ranking officer, as far as the king's navy went, and enjoyed the freedom he had as captain when his ship was docked, no missions for him to take on. Paperwork was always at hand, ink and a quill waiting, but he enjoyed a stroll in the market like any other. 

The market was for the more common folk who could not afford higher luxuries; many farmers sold their goods here, just above the tax line. Enough to survive. 

Which was why it was an enormous shock to John's sound system to see Mr. Holmes trotting through the market, wearing his usual gold braided outfit, but with a somewhat casual touch that almost seemed... improvised. He was flanked by guards on either side, and looked throughly disgusted by them. His horse swung it's head and Mr. Holmes swung himself down nimbly, form enticing the more base instincts in John. 

Ashamed for feeling such things, he turned his head away, missing the way cerulean orbs turned his way. 

John continued to visit the market whenever it was his pleasure if he was not currently sent off in search of pirates or on the King's missions. He did not reach home port for some weeks after he first sighted the wealthy brother of Mycroft Holmes, who ranked much higher than commodore (some rumoured he often held congress with the king), and thus did not see Mr. Holmes, but he did not stop thinking of him. It burned his gut with shame to admit that many dreams of his consisted of the man he had only seen twice. 

Mr. Holmes was quickly to become well-known throughout the port city, for various reasons. He was very opinionated. Few who tried to contend with the man would leave unscathed--emotionally or physically. Mr. Holmes was an excellent swordsman, of both words and weapons. 

He wasn't well-liked, but many were too curious to have an extreme dislike. He was always hanging by the common folk, offering opinions and sometimes even helpful bits of information, usually given in an abrasive form. He never offered assistance to anyone but scorned none for their way of life (lest they do it "wrongly so"). 

Aside from his strange behavior, he also practiced in equally strange experimentations. He was often found enticing the gulls or little critters with food, only to tear them apart systematically with precise, glittering tools. He never did anything that constituted witchcraft, but many thought him too curious for his own good. All of this threw John somewhat off of his track, but it did not make him appear less attractive. It only enticed him further; to watch Mr. Holmes stroll about the port, hair windswept, with sweat running across his brow and seeming completely _real,_ made him fall deeper into admiration and affection. 

John was often watching the younger Holmes. His eyes followed him across the docks or the town, careful to appear simply as interested as the rest of the men and women. It was perhaps for this reason that their paths would soon tangle as timely as they did.

\---

Dear Mr. Holmes, a well-known and anticipated buyer (for if he bought, he gave little care for cost) of interesting finds in the market, was bent over a merchant's table, eyes alight with that gorgeous interest he displayed so rarely. John, never one to miss watching his favourite subject, felt something amiss on the air. The usual amount of constables and naval men including himself hung about, but there was strange anticipation in the air. Eyes usually reserved for themselves turned to Mr. Holmes. His guards were lazing, eyes glazed with thought as they had become used to Mr. Holmes' routine. 

John's fingers drifted to his weapon, eyes on the crowd. The tension was surrounding Mr. Holmes, he realized. He wanted to warn someone, but there was little to do about a feeling of the gut. He satisfied himself with watching the man closely, and the people surrounding him closer. For some time, nothing happened. All was peaceful; Captain John Watson began to relax. 

It was of course the moment when the enemy struck. Someone's horse reared suddenly, it's neigh high and panicked; people scrambled away, towards the place where Mr. Holmes stood. His guards immediately went to attention, keeping people aside, but knew from their range they could never accurately determine who was where. Holmes looked perturbed by this interruption, clutching his purchase to his breast. John saw a glint of steel and a dirty, hard face before he was acting purely on instinct. He shoved his way through the crowd, shouting the master Holmes' name. Sharp, dark eyes turned his way in intrigue as he yanked the man with the knife backwards. He wrestled the knife from the man's dirty fingers, repulsion by the thought of such hands touching Mr. Holmes'. 

They fought, the assassin pushing John back until he nearly stumbled into one of Mr. Holmes' guards. From there, he surged towards him, only to connect weapons with John, who had recovered himself to bear his gun as a means of defense. Any other time being pressed against Mr. Holmes would have been an unrealistic dream come true; however, it was only gratifying to have the opportunity to protect him. Soon the man was apprehended and John breathed a sigh of relief, turning to address his unfortunate companion, whose eyes were fixed upon him most curiously. 

"Mr. Holmes. I am terribly sorry you had to witness such conduct," he began respectfully. Holmes's sniffed. 

"I was perfectly safe." He acknowledged him with wonder and a curious nod of his head. "And no thanks to my guards. You fools were gallivanting off in your daydreams, instead of protecting to what my brother pays you!" Sherlock both knew and acknowledged these men only protected him due to duty. When his eyes turned to John Watson, he saw true admiration. Intrigue and ideas quickly formed. He might be worth his time and effort, if his affection was genuine.

"Would you, Captain of one of his majesty's naval ships and crew, provide yourself instead to my service, as my guard?" He must say yes! 

John was completely shocked, and obviously pleased. He puffed with no little pride and replied: "Mr. Holmes, I thank you. I have nothing against yourself, but I could not, however. I have a duty to the crown. I am honoured to be regarded as such by you, even though." Truly, the grin could not be wiped from his face. 

Sherlock, however, deflated somewhat. "Very well," he sniffed. Disappointed, Mr. Holmes frowned and ordered his guard to take him away, curious to know who this naval officer was, and why he seemed so far from other such vacant men in his same position. 

\---

Paperwork, paperwork, and more paperwork. After his last few voyages, it was a time for John's fingers to be stained with the fruit of his efforts. Sighing lightly, he dipped his pen delicately into the ink, watching the black droplets fall back into the container before he began to write. 

Just as he had begun to log his adventures, the door swung open. Upset by the sudden intrusion, John's quill went askew and a long black streak spread across his parchment. John looked up, a fierce glare ready to be set on the intruder, when he realized it was the ever fascinating Sherlock Holmes. 

He hastily rose to greet him. "Mr. Holmes, what can I do for you?" Instead of answering, he moved to the long settee against his wall, settling there comfortably. 

John was careful when he asked: "is there something you need, Mr. Holmes? I'm a bit busy if there is nothing--" 

"No," came the sharp interruption. "I was bored by the simpleness of our majesty's peasant population."

Flattered he would come to him, but wary since he had barely even spoke to the aristocrat, John smiled. "If you are are as bored by the common man as you say, then there must be far more entertaining establishments than sitting in my office." He decided it was best to take Mr. Holmes in stride. 

He received a small smirk in response. "I would not bet on such a notion." He turned to John. "You interest me." 

"I do?" How had he accomplished that? He had protected the man, certainly, but that did not constitute interest, which was so unique for the man. "I will endeavor to discover how I have done so, and continue to do so," he jested.

That "interest" kept the aristocrat coming throughout the next few weeks. When Sherlock (he had groaned and expressed his hated sentiment towards the title Mr. Holmes after only days of visiting John, though the good captain felt no right to use it, though he could at least think it), was about, it was equal for dear John. They became a well-known pair (and there was no small relief to know Sherlock to ally had a keeper worth his time). If John was out in the town, Sherlock would follow and usually question him about everything he did not know regarding the people. If his travels kept him close to home and in his office, then Sherlock would settle himself with various limbs splayed across the expanse of his settee and watch him work or talk to him whilst he did. 

It did not help John's infatuation one bit to have him closer than ever. He soon realized just how childlike Sherlock could be (nearly throwing a fit if his wants were not met), but also how desirable he made himself. There was a strange thing he called "deduction," where he picked apart people simply by looking at them. It was absolutely fascinating, and John informed him of this. 

"Is it? Mycroft is even better than I, the lazy sod," he had responded with a small quirk of the lips.

"Don't be vulgar," John admonished. Sherlock laughed. When that warm smile was directed upon him, his heart clenched painfully. He was only glad that despite his sharp mind Sherlock could not discern John's feelings. 

Over that time, John realized Sherlock had become something important to him, to his own surprise. Originally lust-driven was his affection, and protective his instincts, now he knew much more about Sherlock; enough to make him something he regarded even more previously than before. He was the gem in a world of grime and dirt and he would do anything to protect that. 

For instance, he knew that he hated his brother. Perhaps, more accurately, it was that he did not approve of his dull life above the clouds, dealing with the undesirably dull aristocracy, as Sherlock had deemed it. The common folk and their unorthodox ways were so much more interesting--and less predictable. 

"You, with your rank, must have entertained enough of them to perceive what I do," he insisted, to which John lightly protested.

"Generally my orders come from a messenger or mail. You are the one dining with the fine china," John jested truthfully. "Are they really as predictable as you say? They must have their secrets, at that." 

"Secrets are boring," Sherlock sniffed. "I can see them as well as I can see your attraction to those meretricious maidens." John bit his lip to keep from protesting; there were few who could rival Sherlock Holmes any longer. 

"You must have a fair share of both admirers and suitors yourself." 

A soft sound of assent. "Far too many, but only when I first arrived here." He looked wry. "I would much rather spend my time with you, whom I find far less boring and predictable. At least you have true adventures of piracy and battles to entertain my senses." His expression was benign when he looked upon John's handsome visage. John met his eyes, smile soft and loving. 

Something passed between them in that moment, unspoken and sudden. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as he looked at John's open face, and the naked expression there. John looked into the pale man's face, beheld his beauty and sincerity in affection for John, and knew his heart was gone. He longed to embrace him, but knew that it would never be appropriate, and could never be allowed between two men, let alone those of their rank. Nor would Sherlock wish it, to be true. He was far too lovely to be touched by the likes of John. 

It did not change the constant hope he seemed to hold, like a breath under water.

\---

His hopes and wildest dreams threatened to come true the day of John's leaving, when what had changed before threw itself between the two men.

The last of John's things were finally packed away for a long journey, one that threatened to be months long if they were not swift. John's team was a good one, trusted with the highest of missions, which was why he was traveling to the Caribbean. Sherlock was sitting at his desk in a massive pout. This was the longest John had been sent away since meeting Sherlock.

Sherlock was careful to catalog every movement of his dear friend's for fear of forgetting his image, however impossible that may be. "You will be careful," he warned for the third time, barely realizing when it was done. John frowned deeply from where he stood, expression hidden. 

"Yes," he answered stiffly, pushing his belongings into their chest. He had held back the last two times, but it did grate on him—John was a captain, and a good one at that. He had been on worse missions and was no fool. "I am capable you know," he stated smoothly, betraying little (he thought) of how he truly felt. His heart ached—perish the thought of being far away from Sherlock this long. 

When he pivoted, facing his companion, his irritation evaporated. Sherlock appeared as he never had before. He betrayed his emotions now, usually carefully hidden inside himself. He looked as though someone had stolen his precious pony or kicked his favourite peasant. His lower lip was between his teeth in an effort to contain himself. It hit John that he was trying to be supportive without the trouble that followed him like a baby duckling. 

"Mr—" Sherlock's eyes clouded with emotion. John's heart constricted, so much it was hard to breathe. "Sherlock," he finally spoke. Sherlock began to tremble, resolutely looking above John's head. 

"John, be safe," he repeated with feeling. 

John could not have stopped himself even if he wished. His steps took him in front of Sherlock, and then he was kneeling. "John." Sherlock's breath snagged in his throat and his eyes were wide, but John thought he saw a small smile there; irresponsible hope bloomed. It was unheard of for a man such as he to associate with John, let alone let him touch his fair skin in any way. Sherlock raised his hand, allowing John to delicately hold it in his gloved palm. No words were exchanged; John feared he might risk this dangerous air that surrounded them if he so spoke. 

"John," Sherlock breathed. John lifted himself up and kissed his knuckles delicately—a ghosting of lips across fine skin. He longed to map the expanse of each pale digit, to press his lips against his skin, soft as silk, until he made it blush. 

"I will return. Safe." Another dangerous brush of his lips, a confirmation of his forbidden affections; a _promise_. 

John left Sherlock with a sour twist to his lips and a high blush on his cheeks. 

\---

Endless weeks later, and John could easily conclude that he had been away far too long for his taste. He loved the sea; there was no escape, and he was never want for, but after months of inhaling salt and bearing the wind slapping his face, he was much ready to return to port. Sherlock was constantly on his mind; his most vicious grimace would have been a most welcome sight. 

Shame curled inside of John when he recalled the many dreams that had appeared throughout the night as their time apart lengthened. It was impossible to forget the restraint he had held and how gently Sherlock's hand- soft and warm-sat in his own. 

Thus it was weeks before John returned, having sent a few letters when he was able. They were formal and very careful, but his admiration went undisguised. John only hoped Sherlock knew how deeply his feelings ran--and did not simply indulge him. John had to believe in Sherlock, for his heart was now in his capable hands. 

John stepped off of his ship, the familiar air of home port strengthening him to the very tips of his toes. The sea had left him want for the proper foods of his home, and the sharp movements wore him out. Although his love of the sea knew no bounds, his growing love for a specific man on land, one of unequal looks, had him bound by new obligations. 

John took off his hat to scratch at his matted, unwashed hair, scowling with good nature. He would have liked to pay respect to Mr. Holmes, but would not dare allow his eyes to see him in this ragged state. A bath was the first thing on his menu. 

John returned home, his housemaid scurrying to prepare his bath. He thanked her without thought of it, mind - as always - wandering towards a forbidden subject. Sherlock would have had months to create new relationship, far superior and proper than their association. The thought was of the most painful nature; however, John had done his own thinking whilst he was away at sea. He missed Sherlock, dearly so, but he could not risk ruining his name. At the very least they would be imprisoned—or John would, if Mycroft interfered for the safety of his younger brother.

He reflected on this while washing his body, lips purses unhappily. Perhaps, if he were so lucky, he would have grown bored of John's entertainment and had already searched for a new subject of study, clinging to their surface, enchanting them as fast as John had been. Possessive jealousy surged inside of John. That was an outcome that he fiercely regarded as less than favourable, but he could only accept it if it were true. Sighing, John almost regretted ever entangling himself with such a man who could no doubt instill desire in even the clergy. 

As his thoughts took darker turns, the door burst open, of which he was sure he had locked, to produce Mr. Holmes. Horrified, John attempted to cover himself, towel whisked in front of his person. 

"Mr. Holmes!" To further his embarrassment, he looked disappointed when he looked up to meet John's eyes. "What the devil are you doing in here?" he exclaimed, face developing its red flush quite beautifully, in Sherlock's opinion. 

"From where do you think I have come? You decided that while I was at rest inside with Mycroft and his idiotic servants, bored to my very end, you would return home without sending a letter relating your journey’s end! I correctly deduced that you, captain, had stopped sending your previously frequent letters due to your eminent return, and that you would not wish to bother myself over the matter." The magnificent man paused for breath. John was worried he had quite fallen in love with him, he looked so brilliant and alive. "You were wrong. I wanted nothing more."

Despite John calling out a warning, he quickly moved toward him with his usual grace, muscles shifting under his attire, of which John could not remove his gaze. When he looked into Sherlock's face, the determination there was staggering; no longer could he look at Sherlock as something to protect, to keep in innocence. He was regarding a gorgeous man who had made his choice and was going to take it. John had wanted to protect him and keep their relationship of the friendly nature, but knew he could never keep his own promise with the tempter in front of him.

John however could not let him see him in such a state (he was naked, for God's sake). He stopped Sherlock with a hand, admiration and love setting the pace of his rapidly beating heart. Sherlock did indeed stop, a begrudging look on his face betraying the state of his patience. "Wait for me in my quarters," John said softly, wrapping the towel around himself (desire ran through him as Sherlock's eyes skittered across the expanse). 

As Sherlock left he moved for the clothing his maid had left out, already conjuring imperfect images of the source of his affections spread across his sleeping quarters. John could hardly dress himself fast enough, fingers stumbling inelegantly over the buttons to his waistcoat. When all was well, he composed himself and moved to the bedroom, daring not even to breathe as he slid open the door. 

Sherlock was sitting in a straight position, eyes glittering with anticipation and impatience. When John cast himself into the room, closing the door shut with a quick twist of the key, silence reigned for some moments, unspoken passions heating the room. 

John was the first to move, placing himself in front of Sherlock. Sherlock raised his hand, memories from months past bringing a smile to rise. John took the offered hand and kissed his knuckles, harder than before. 

"You honor me in bringing yourself here," he whispered into his skin. Delicate pressure met a soft gasp. "I myself barely know how to react." His lips trembled when they met his skin, traveling up as Sherlock allowed. He kissed the top of his hand; his wrist. John grasped his elbow gently, proceeding to place a kiss even higher, a playful smile on his lips. 

"Insufferable man," Sherlock said. He pulled John off of his arm and cupped his face between his hands, bringing him in for their first kiss. John could feel the tremble of Sherlock's lips, the gentle brush of his thumbs against his cheeks, coarse and dry by sand and wind. 

Their fate, dangerous as it was, was sealed. 

\---

From that night on Sherlock and John were even more affectionate in each other's company--and more discreet. They were sure to keep from each other when in public, and only behind closed doors or in John's office (he was commonly known as Sherlock's keeper). 

Kisses were exchanged often; Sherlock had a particular fondness for them. He was often leaning over John's desk to place a chaste kiss upon his lips, few times deviating with the slightest hint of his tongue. It was at these moment that John became the blushing maiden, embarrassed by his other's forward nature. 

"You will have me convicted," he said to Sherlock one day, lips brushing his softly. He received a very blank look in return. "You kiss me so many times that it is a wonder no one questions why I appear so well done after our meetings." Sherlock's look was devious as he pulled John closer for another, laughing softly.

Although Sherlock was ever the forward one, he never went past the gentle press of lips. He was shy in that way, always looking for John's approval. It was after one of John's longer trips, spanning past a heart-aching week of hunting down what seemed to be a simple case of piracy, for them to progress. 

When John came back, they tumbled onto his bed, pawing at each other in an undignified manner reserved for heathens in the less... Religious districts. With Sherlock's supple lips sliding wetly against his own, John couldn't bring himself to care. 

They kissed, actions growing more heated as Sherlock shivered against John, fingers burying into his golden locks. John's hands strayed slightly from Sherlock's hips, running with a careful gentleness over his stomach and the small of his back. Sherlock took the initiative and parted his swollen lips. A gasp arose from John and Sherlock pulled him in, thrusting his tongue in between John's lips. He pulled Sherlock even closer, devouring him for all he was worth. The moans reserved for the whorehouse further enraged John's libido. 

"We must stop," urged John. Such acts were those reserved for couples of marriage.

Sherlock ran his tongue across his lower lip, eyes glazed with desire. His flush extended to his neck, decorating such pale lovely skin red; how was John to resist, when he looked at him like that? 

"Must we?" Sherlock teased, pulling him in with a decisive roll of his hips. John planted a kiss atop his forehead. 

"It is not decent. Especially for a man of my--"

"Oh, who cares about decent," his partner purred, his voice anything but. John shuddered, unable to resist. 

\---

They took more opportunities when exploring the vastness of each other's bodies. John could be coaxed to remove his shirt, and Sherlock liked biting his nipples, which was certainly a strange experience. He jumped and yelped at the warm touch of his tongue, often times earning a giggle. John would tremble as he pressed his hand over the swell of his groin, and Sherlock would push back with an encouraging groan. 

Watching Sherlock enter the throes of sexual gratification was a sight that left John breathless. It was like a painter finishing his masterpiece; soft, warming strokes against soft flesh that thickened and lengthened until it became _more,_ and he was pulsing, hot and hard against John's palm. High, desperate moans rose from cupid's bow lips. The flush on his cheeks darkened when John said something that flattered him. It spread across his body, followed by sweat and a warmth that John relished. 

His completion was a series of staccato moans, short, sharp dabs of the painters brush until wet heat spread between them. Sherlock would reach into John's middle, fingers clasping lazily, pliant and beautiful after orgasm. It took him only moments to follow Sherlock, crying out his name. When he next peered into Sherlock's eyes, he knew he was gone as well. His lips trembled and his eyes were bright. John clung to him, babbling in affection and promise. 

\---

Love was dangerous. Between two men, it dealt in life and death. If they were not careful, there would only be a hanging in their future. With every touch and every soft-hearted look Sherlock or he himself sent, he could feel danger creep behind him, keeping him ever vigilant. To think of Sherlock, eyes wide and afraid, at the gallows, John knew he would do anything to protect him. 

It was their luck that perhaps no one would expect the two of them as a pair. Indeed, he often thought Sherlock painted too pretty a picture to be in cohorts with Captain John Watson, of much less fine looks an origin. His thoughts always turned, however, when Sherlock looked at him with what was surely meant to be patient distaste, but looked utterly smitten in John's eyes. He could not abandon the heart he had just grown with his own tender love and care. 

Despite the ease with which they delved into such a relationship, the climax of their adventure would come sooner than they expected. 

\---

It came as quite a shock one morning, to say the least, when Sherlock, ever so coy and brilliant, came up to him to whisper in his ear. John had expected something nervous and endearing; worthy of flush. It was to his surprise that he felt wet heat against the curve of his ear and a low, rich rumble that oozed sexual promise. 

"I want to penetrate you," he purred, arms curling around his waist. Sherlock's fingers splayed across his stomach, over where heat simmered in his belly. His breath caught, and Sherlock continued. "I want to be inside of you, to feel you all around me. Have we not waited long enough, months and months?" he kissed the spot below his ear that made John's knees feel weak, breath staggering. 

"Sherlock," he warned, but he would not be persuaded. John felt his thick, engorged length press into his backside, enticing images that threatened to undo John. "Sherlock," he whispered again, near a moan. His partner chuckled in triumph. 

"So expressive, dear John. My quarters, tonight." He pressed a loving kiss to John's lips. "Mycroft is having a ball and will have servants guard the stairs. I told them to let no one up. We will be alone. Will you come?" 

The implication was obvious. John had witnessed the man's room only once before; it was grand and beautiful. Perfect for the union of their love and much more spacious than John's own. "Are you sure?" John asked in a whisper, clutching his love near desperately. Sherlock nodded, brushing their noses.

"I must prepare. I have told them to let you in only. They will know you are the one who stills my boredom; my spite for such parties is well known. None will hesitate." 

And so a plan was set. One that made John's heart throb and his insides quake with fear, but not without some excitement. John readied himself for the night, going out to find and fit proper party wear (for if anyone saw him go in looking improperly dressed, he would arise suspicion). It wasn't difficult, as many tailors were more than happy to sell expensive dress wear and coats of vibrant colors, specifically made for the royals who wished to show their money on their sleeve. 

John picked a sensible coat, one of fine tailoring and burning burgundy under the light. He had it fit well to his liking and bought along with it fine white breeches, the kind he would prefer on the enigmatic Sherlock. He had his own dress shoes, and managed to get a fair price from the man offering, as he knew and respected him as an officer. 

"You keep Mr. Holmes company. The boy's a good one, if not abrasive in his nature. He often comes to my shop." 

John bid him a pleasant goodbye and went back to his home. There was much to think about-- none of which held little consequence. No matter how many times tried to consider parting from Sherlock, the idea refused to stick; he could not part from the man now if he had wanted. There was also the issue of how. How, indeed, was Sherlock to penetrate him, as he said? John was not slick as women were and his passage was considerably smaller. It was a curiosity of his, and something he had indulged in during his bath hours when he was alone. It was very strange and uncomfortable--and that was simply a finger! How did he expect to fit all of his generous length inside? 

John turned his thoughts, aware he was blushing quite heavily. There was time for consideration later. He gathered his bag and an extra pair of cloth breeches in the case it became soiled. The thought made him smile with both nerves and fondness; surely no one would question the extra pair, if it were seen? A rendezvous with a lady was something not entirely unheard. 

All of this planning and fretting had John very in need of food. His stomach rumbled and he asked his maid to make him a sandwich or two, perhaps some stew as well? She was ever so good at it. Gertie waved her spoon at him but smiled; John had the ability to charm any lady of any background (he had entertained three specifically from three different continents at a younger point in his life), it seemed. After eating, he went to his office to clear of any work he might have piled. Inside to meet him was a rather handsome looking man, holding his hat to his breast.

"May I help you?" He asked, sitting at his desk warily. 

"Captain John Watson?" The man asked. His eyes or face seemed familiar. Perhaps he was one of those people everyone seemed to recognize on the street. 

"Yes; what is it? News from the king?" His brow furrowed with worry. 

"No! No, it's from an— " he paused very strangely "—an admirer, yes. She sends her regards and this letter." 

John received it to study its contents. What followed was:

_Dearest John,_

_My name is Amelia. You do not know me, but I have often looked upon your brave, heroic image as you walk through the streets. I must confess; I admire you a great deal. Will you be at Mr. Holmes' ball tonight? Surely that dashing man will invite you. What great friends you seem! I digress. I hope to see you there._

_Sincerely yours,  
Amelia._

He did not know what to say, looking up to his deliverer. "Is an answer expected?" 

The man nodded. "She wishes to know if what she placed in her writing is true and if you will meet her."

It was all very strange, from the letter itself to its deliverer. John frowned and shook his head. 

"Tell her I cannot return her feelings, but perhaps we may meet at the ball if fate will have it." A rather demure smile and the man left, his familiar face disappearing from his mind as soon as the door had closed. He was consumed by Sherlock, in body and mind. 

\---

The time of the gathering came rather quickly from there. John had barely finished his paperwork when he looked at his clock. He jumped from his seat, shocked to see it was nearly five. It would begin very soon! He quickly dressed himself in his new clothing and made his way to the Holmes’ estate, feeling very nervous and inadequate indeed. 

When he arrived at the gates, after hailing a coach, his breath was stolen from him. The estate was enormous; bigger than any house (if it could be called that) in town, and making John feel very small. He approached the door, followed by many other elegant men and women who fluttered and flattered each other. Women had plumes and feathers galore; it was all rather excessive for John, but who was he to complain about high fashion? Looks at his own attire, some appreciative and some accompanied by a sneer, certainly made him doubt himself. 

Arriving at the door, his name was requested, and then he was allowed to enter. Glittering chandeliers and glass figurines nearly blinded him. Everything was considerably bright and full of cheer already. The floor shone and colorful baubles and streamers hung the walls. Yet it was all very...subtle. Grand and beautiful, certainly, but not as over the top as John had expected. 

John was charmed. It was extravagant and tasteful; he relayed this to the first man to talk to him. He knew it would never be acceptable to run up the stairs like a heathen, no matter the excitement that bubbled in his chest. He chatted and delivered himself in a presentable way. Many of the woman, at least, seemed charmed by his position, fluttering and flattering him. Indeed, John was well liked and amiable for a talk, even if he knew little of the subject.

If he was honest to himself, he slowed his movements and kept some of the guests for longer than what should have been. His nerves overruled the anticipation, and he was nearly afraid of what he might meet when alone with Sherlock. Doubts and questions clouded his mind and pervaded his thoughts. It was only when someone in particular asked his relation to Mr. Holmes that he was forced to admit his purpose. Sherlock had invited him, and it would be rude to ignore the party he had been invited to, but he really must go. Bidding the flirtatious female goodbye, John searched for the stairs and found a servant to lead him. John did not once think of the woman who was supposedly found affection with him, and only when he looked upon a pretty maid did he cast his gaze for any lingering eyes. No one paid him any attention, and deciding whomever she was was not around, bound up the stairs to find his love.

Unfortunately, Sherlock had not said which room in which he was to reside. John wandered the great halls, wondering how he was supposed to find him, when he heard a shrill whistle. Startled, John turned and saw a mound of dark curls disappearing around a corner. Puzzled but pleased he hurried to follow, and when he turned the corner was suddenly pushed into the wall. Full, soft lips descended on his own. He gasped, allowing Sherlock entrance. The man wrapped his nimble fingers around John’s wrists, pulling them above his head.

Sherlock finally paused for breath. “Sherlock, what is it—” But his lips were covered again with a force that surprised him. He was subject to the hard press of the wall and warm hands upon his skin. Sherlock’s mouth was hot and he awoke a fire within his companion, one that burned strong inside him, until he was shaking with pleasure. Sherlock tapered off only when John had utterly melted into his companion, flushed down to his collar and appearing well-kissed.

“What in the name Heaven was that?” John asked with a pleasant laugh. Sherlock’s expression was half stormy, cutting off his lover’s pleasure with the situation.

“You,” he hissed. “Do not try to play coy with me!”

John frowned, puzzled entirely. “Dearest Sherlock, what ever do you mean?”

“Do you not think I would notice? I. Notice. Everything, John Watson. I’m no fool. I did not think you would be so weak when in a woman—any woman’s—presence.” He snarled fiercely and kissed John hard again, as if to confirm _he_ was the only one capable of affecting him like this. John was bewildered with the happenings, unbeknownst to his lover’s jealousy, but aware of his unwillingness to share.

“What on earth do you mean? What women?” He gave a sharp laugh. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

“You were surrounded by them, laughing and _showing off_.”

It dawned on John in that moment of what Sherlock was speaking. “Oh,” he said softly. Sherlock’s expression was a heart-wrenching mixture of love and betrayal, shining so brilliantly in those gorgeous blue eyes that John had to take his hand and kiss it with reverence. “Your anger is misplaced,” he informed him solemnly. “I could enjoy company such as yours and find a single woman to compare. They were merely distractions.” In a serious pout, Sherlock looked at him for explanation.

“In truth, my nerves had a good hold on me and I was biding my time with fancy and pleasant, easy company. You made my heart race so, that I could not bear to see you yet.” After hearing his explanation, Sherlock seemed to appease himself with it. Various forms of guilt and frustration flashed across his beautiful face.

John had already forgiven him. He cupped his face and planted a sound kiss upon him. “Let us go to your room. I believe I have a promise to fulfill.” With a shy blush of his own, Sherlock took his wrist and led him down the hallways, past gorgeous rooms of fancy until they had reached their destination. Sherlock’s room was sparkling clean, aside from his desk, which was cluttered beyond imagination. Papers and phials filled its space. Sherlock gave a shrug.

“I was so terribly bored I resigned myself to cleaning. I couldn’t move much, and my experimentations are hidden throughout the manor. If they were kept in here Mycroft would have his pleasure in their disposal.” John nodded, ignoring the precariously settled mess and instead focused on his lover’s benign expression. “I’ve missed you in our short time apart,” Sherlock said in near whisper.

John responded with an embrace, one that seemed to encompass his whole being. “As have I,” he said into his ear, breath caught in Sherlock’s pure scent. They clung to each other, and then suddenly they were embracing in another completely different way. Sherlock’s lips were pliant and generous under John; he let him have his control whilst driving him mad with every coquettish quirk of a lip. 

They moved to Sherlock’s bed, very careful not to disturb various happenings about his room and made sure to keep quiet. The party was a dull murmur this far away, and servants were to keep all curious inquirers out, but they could not risk being reckless.

John kept an ear open and ready, even as Sherlock began to decorate his neck with warm, gentle kisses. It was scandalous: if someone was to catch them, there could be no mistaking what was in play. John could not bring himself to indulge in his fear, pleasure a soft sigh of content. He allowed Sherlock’s exploration, taking his own time to strip him of his clothing. He would like to have had time to do this properly, without danger looming above their heads, but acknowledged they were not man and woman and could not engage as they did, free of suspicion.

John’s reflection was cut off when Sherlock pressed his tongue into the groove above John’s collarbone, distracting him and bringing him back to their purpose. Hands wandered and they attempted to remove each other’s clothing in their haste, which only served to make everything slower. John laughed, full of free and nervous energy. Sherlock’s smirk was hidden when his head dipped down to lap at John’s navel. They giggled, full of shame and excitement both.

John let his hand drift, fingertips brushing across his love’s arousal. Sherlock peered at him through his lashes, growing serious as he retrieved something from inside his abandoned waistcoat. “What is that?” John asked, with a touch of fear. Sherlock was known for experimentations, and the gleam in his eye did not bode well. 

“A concoction of my own make. For this purpose exactly,” he said, smug, and gestured between them. It took moments for the meaning to sink in his skull. 

“Oh, I had... wondered about that. How exactly will this be done? I confess, I’ve never had the pleasure—or what I hope will be, with anyone, let alone—” his babbling was cut off by a solid kiss. John felt hands delve between his thighs, and he forced himself not to lock them tight when Sherlock’s wandering hands went where no hand should go. 

“It is a special oil,” he purred, as his finger stroked along John’s entrance lightly. The naval officer gasped, taking Sherlock by the shoulders. Sherlock took the opportunity and nibbled on his ear, kissing a pathway down his neck and shoulder. John’s breath caught with his words: 

“Its purpose is to... ease the way.” His voice rolled rich and deep. 

“O-oh?” John stammered, unable to concentrate properly when he felt a very cool presence touch someone entirely intimate and utterly wrong-to-do. Sherlock prepared him, as careful and gentle as the man he was, but it was impossible to still all of the pain. It morphed into a feeling of the most awkward nature, one he had not experienced in his entire life; a fierce blush decorated his cheeks, and—to his consternation—Sherlock released a pleased hum. He kissed the skin of John's knee, and trailed his lips along his thigh, tongue brushing wryly across skin. Sherlock opened his mouth fully, and then without warning descended upon John's length with a suddenness that had him nearly shouting. "Sherlock!" He hissed, scandalized pleasure cascading down his spine.

Sherlock did not stop. John breathed tiny sounds into the still air, half-hearted in his attempts to remove Sherlock's mouth. His hands were bold, curling into soft raven hair with harsh tugs as he forced shocked moans from the man below. John’s leg twitched and his body bowed, breath hitching distinctly when Sherlock's tongue did something obscene.

Sherlock twisted, a hand freeing itself to run along his skin, adding to the heat. John could feel his breath grow less even as he gave into the sensation, the urge to pant, and kicked at the sheets when Sherlock began to prepare him for the second time. The sensation was nearly too much, and not enough. Sherlock's name was only a breath of air when he reversed the motions and pulled his head back, releasing John. He hauled his lover into his lap immediately, lust and love lighting his veins. He had never met a man like Sherlock, who, like a droplet of water to the earth, could come and disappear so quickly, with such intensity.

John ran his hands over Sherlock's arms and back, working their bodies together. He pushed against Sherlock and he could feel that the fire was upon him well. The skin on Sherlock's back was smooth beneath his fingertips, and he twisted against him  
when his palm slid downward.

Over the pounding in John's ears, he could hear the faint chatter of the men and women of the party. They were forgotten soon when Sherlock's fingertips ensured entrance into him once more, and then he was falling upon him. John felt his thick length press against his backside and shivered with mingled fear and anticipation. "Bear down, John," said Sherlock. His voice sounded on the edge of pain, thick brows furrowed with concentration. John wrapped his arms about the man's neck just as he pressed inside of him; they released gasps of equal awe.

Sherlock seemed completely captured, eyes wide and hips stilled. John threw his arm over his face, grunting with his intrusion. "Do not look at me," he gasped. "I am so—" he moaned with a precise movement from Sherlock.

"Beautiful," Sherlock finished for him, forcing his arms beside his head. John’s eyes grew wide and dilated when he did not release him.

John’s words were lost as Sherlock began to move, pain radiating within him for some moments. He was burning hot, his hips hitching forward, his breath staggering, falling as Sherlock captured his mouth. He was carving into him, like lava, deft, transforming pain into pleasure. John gripped his shoulders and shuddered as Sherlock drove into him not harshly, but _relentless_ in his pursuit. Skin flushed and beginning to sweat, moans tore from John’s throat. His prick, twitching between them, grew with renewed interest. Sherlock kissed the shell of his ear and whispered:

“You are far more lovely than any of _them_.” Shudders wracked his body; John was coming undone. He pressed against Sherlock with a wrangled shout, cracking when he sucked on John’s shoulder. His mouth was hot and his tongue traced the space of his neck as various curses threatened to spill from John’s mouth. 

Sherlock rolled his hips in a way that made them both groan. John scrambled for some sort of purchase and mindlessly raked red lines over pale skin. “God—!” he cried. The flush over his face deepened with shame, but John was unable to keep quiet. He folded into Sherlock and bit at his shoulder hard, feet twisting, toes clenching, legs wrapped around his waist. The taste of skin and sweat made him dizzy. 

Sherlock could feel climax approaching far too fast, and in such a short amount of time. John was all wet heat and greedily pulled him, expressive face urging a swift completion. “Oh, Heaven, John,” he rasped, thrusts growing erratic. Sherlock wrapped both arms around John tightly, trapping him in a hot, heady embrace as he very-well slammed into his body, riding through the final waves of ecstasy. The animalistic side of Sherlock was enough to ruin John forever, and soon he found himself going rigid with a shout. 

Sherlock watched him spend himself, eyes wide with delight. He took John’s lips once more, rough and erotic, before he too came undone. 

\---

They rested there for some time, clutching each other as Sherlock slipped free and they became aware of their proximity, sweat and grime the results of their intercourse. John shuddered when he felt liquid seep down his thigh. It was an... interesting feeling, one mixed between being pleased and disgusted. “You’ve utterly ruined me, my love,” he sighed, giggling in an almost manic manner afterwards. Sherlock kissed his temple with a dark smirk. 

“Yes, yes, terribly ludicrous and droll. If anything, you are the one who has ruined me, dear Watson. I distinctly remember a fascinated blond man staring at me whilst I walked about the town.” 

John gasped. “You- you- how? You didn’t even see me half of the time!” he exclaimed, sitting up (and falling back when it proved a painful move). 

“I have eyes everywhere,” said Sherlock. He brushed his fingertips over John’s navel and then played with it, dipping his finger in the crevice to wiggle around. John slapped at his hand and huffed. 

“You are far too vulgar,” he scolded with little heat. John wrinkled his nose and looked down between them. “Might we prepare a bath?” 

“I would not know where to start,” Sherlock responded, seemingly still fascinated by John’s navel, unperturbed by his own ignorance. 

“You have lived a blessed life, then. Come, let us wash off this...magnanimous example of lust and love, and take our bath. Luckily, our clothing was discarded, though they are due to be ironed. Beggars, as they say, cannot be choosers.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a display of true mannerism. “Who, might I ask, is ‘they?’” A radiant smile broke on John’s face, laughter and amusement obvious, and as he was about to answer, the door suddenly opened. Both men spun upon their heels, eyes wide horror and immediately aware of how they looked. John grabbed the sheet and covered himself; Sherlock glared at the woman who had dared come through. 

“M-Mr. Holmes!” she screeched, scandalized. Her eyes flitted between, wanting and yet reluctant to look at what was obvious. “I- I thought— he said—” 

The broke of their stillness. Sherlock was the first to move. “I informed every one of you not to come to my bedchambers for any reason!” roared the man, a flush darkening on his cheeks. 

She ran straight out of the room, hand over her heart. 

Sherlock cursed, slamming his foot down on the carpeting. “Damn them all to hell!” He paced, fingers tapping patterns on his chin, while John stood still by his bedside. What a mistake it was. He should have known that it could never be true. Sherlock would be disgraced now; he could never face his family, his brother. The people would have him in prison. John swallowed his fears and turned to Sherlock. 

“I am sorry it has come to this,” said John, earnest and heartbroken. Their mood was dark and no longer full of promise; his heart hung heavy.

“What?” Sherlock spun on him, eyes raking across his form. He saw the resolve there and the desperate look in his eyes, and snarled fiercely. “Do not be a fool, John Watson. I will not have you sacrificing yourself over a _mishap_.”

“Mishap! But they will have you in the Gaol,” he nearly shouted, keenly aware their time was running low. He quickly grabbed at his clothing, stuffing the items on without care. All would know what had transpired soon enough. “I will not let that happen to you.” His belief was firm, as was his resolve. Surely, he could convince them he seduced—

“No.” With a suddenness that left him dizzy, John’s face was in Sherlock’s hands. “John.” He sounded like a man whose heart was breaking, and John felt his emotions well up within him. “I will not lose you, and neither you, me. If you go down, I would soon follow.” A sharp breath followed this declaration. John sagged into his embrace. 

“What shall we do, then? What would you suggest?” John’s lips quivered, the urge to kiss his heart’s love hard to resist. He felt like it would defile him more than he already had. 

“Run away,” breathed the man. John frowned deeply. 

“No. I will not do that to you. You will have a life without comfort, one that is unhappy and strange to you. We will always be running—”

“I have surrounded myself in the peasant lives for a very long time—for good reason. I hold no ignorance. I will run away with you because I will not stand to have you in prison—or worse. No arguing. We may have a few days in which we must pack our belongings. Go to your home; I will meet you shortly.”

John met him, and he felt himself drowning in those lips. When Sherlock released him, he was flushed and well-kissed. Another peck, and he was bid a goodbye. 

\---

John made his way through the back of Sherlock’s large home. He received scant glances, none of which held malice. The news would no doubt spread soon, if the woman had not fainted, or felt little for Sherlock. There were so many maidservants about that he had his doubts. He was nearly past one of the side doorways of the gigantic house, when he caught the look of the courier that had brought him that letter. After a glance or two, he swiftly went to make his exit until he heard his name being called. 

The courier was jogging his way. “Captain Watson,” he greeted, seeming pleasant. “I’ve heard about you and the Master Holmes.”

John felt his face begin to pale. “You have ‘heard’ nothing of truth, then. If you will excuse me,” he said, quickly. 

“I heard it was dear Amelia, your admirer, too. Such a shame, at such an unfortunate time.” The name rang bells, and John turned once again. 

“That is none of your concern, nor for your speculation. I suggest you stop spreading rumours if you care anything for the master of this home." 

His face turned gruesome with the kind of malice fit for a murderer. “It must have been easy, luring away those pesky servants. A spot or two left to clean, and the way was open. A promised letter for Mr. Holmes? Why, of course!” He was examining his fingernails now.

In that moment, something had slowly, irrevocably dawned on John. Suspicion rose and he studied the honest face of his companion. There was something familiar about it, he realized. 

The face of his adversary twisted suddenly into an gruesome and fierce portrait. Much to his surprise, John realized it was the man who had first tried to murder Sherlock! How dark a day this was. “You,” John breathed, scarcely believing it true. “You set up this catastrophe!” Anger flooded through his veins, and he had to clench his fists to keep himself from acting upon this new insight.

“Not I, good sir.” His smirk was devious and nasty. “You set yourself up for such failure. I was merely a catalyst, biding my time. The Holmes family will rue the day it decided to go against mine, forcing us into poverty! Mycroft Holmes himself should suffer; however, he is nigh untouchable. Sherlock Holmes is a much closer target.” 

John nearly forgot his purpose then and there, ready to scream in frustrated anger. It was only the whispers of nearby women that had him recalling his original purpose. “And what of Amelia?”

“She does not exist.” John wanted to know who that woman had been, and how he had made her come to his room, but he beginning to suspect that he did not have the time. With that, John stomped his way out of the large mansion and found that news had not spread that far. Perhaps only the maids were gossiping as of yet. No doubt they would inform the authorities very soon, though. John traveled home, aware he did not very prim, but far from caring at this point. Sherlock’s future was on the line, as was his own.

\---

Slender fingers buried into neatly trimmed hair, transforming it into an unfortunate mass of tangles. It was much like how Sherlock Holmes felt in that moment. Everything which had been perfect was suddenly not so. He paced his room, eyes cast to decide what to take, only to throw his arms up and deliver from the notion entirely. He did not want to run away from his home, but John did not deserve such a fate. Sherlock would never allow himself to let down his lover in such a disgraceful manner. 

They would need either ships or carriages. Passage to the colonies in America would be much more suitable, but the last boat had left hours before, and who knew when another would return? A carriage It was, but how was he to stop the flow of information? He would need time to run about and plan for his experiments. Would the news have already spread to Mycroft, with eyes and ears in all places.

Sherlock tore at his hair and jerked towards his desk, sweeping half of the contents onto the carpet. The first thing needed was to plan. Sherlock rang the bell for his favorite maidservant, one he trusted with his life. She would no doubt take care of everything while he was incapacitated. Sherlock scribbled the locations along with their notations of each and every experiment and the how's and when's of their procedure. She was to mail the results to his private address when he sent her a letter. "Let no one see," he instructed. When Molly entered his room nearly half an hour later, he smiled at her to hide his unease. 

"I have left you instructions for my experiments. Molly, I will be leaving for a long journey and I have no idea when I might be back." She looked stricken, clutching her hands at her breast. 

"Why?" asked she, and then flushed at her presumptivness. It was not her place to ask, but she had always been infatuated with Sherlock. 

"It is no matter. Everything will be explained in my writing. I must go." His belongings were quickly gathered in light baggage for the journey. He could possibly have Molly send more, if she trusted him after hearing of his betrayal. 

"It has been a pleasure." Sherlock's expression was one of more warmth than he had previously shown to her before. Molly looked up at him, wringing her small hands. It felt too much like a goodbye to her. 

"Have a safe trip, Master Holmes," she wished him. His smile was grim. It would be a much more than just a vacation from his brother's home. 

As Sherlock left, Molly immediately traversed the length to his desk to see what was what. It was so like Mr. Holmes to be cryptic in his directions. Growing used to his more than not harsh ways had taken time. She jumped when a hand laid on her shoulder.

"Good evening, Miss Hooper." 

\---

Energy felt as if it was bottled up inside of John, ready to burst from his very being. His hands shook with nerves and he had not felt this anxious in a very long time. Sherlock was presumably readying himself, but what if he was being held? He could barely stand the thought and had to take a glass of his favourite brandy in order to calm himself. Time passed very slowly and he tried to fill it with images of their future. Would they run to another continent, perhaps? The colonies of the Americas seemed a good choice as any, but a boat would be impossible to find. If an independent sailor passed their way, they would eagerly dock, but who knew when that would be? They would have to travel by land. 

A bang shocked John of his thoughts and his grim expression cleared with relief. Sherlock stood in front of him, a large bag over his shoulder. "Sherlock!" The hopelessness of the situation seemed to dissipate when he had that man in his arms again. They hugged fiercely before breaking apart to gaze at each other. 

"You look frightful. Have you sorted out everything?" Sherlock nodded his assent. 

"I have left everything to a trusted employee of mine. It is my hope that even after our news breaches her ears that she will continue to do me service." Sherlock collapsed into John's settee, remembering how only nights ago he could find himself completely relaxed in John's amiable company. "I will miss this," said on a reflex. John sucked in his breath and dropped by Sherlock's feet. He abhorred himself in that moment. He had ruined his love's future because he was not strong in resisting temptation. 

Sherlock saw this pitifully easily and drew him up. "Do not linger in the past; it is an idiot's fancy. Let us think of our future." The possibility of "our" tasted bittersweet on his tongue. He found he quite liked it. John, too, seemed to lift slightly. 

"Do you have a carriage we could take? Tomorrow is the latest." 

"I have hired one to wait by the edge of my brother's property; we will depart quietly and leave this wretched place behind." The future seemed brighter and full of possibility. He would be lonely for his aristocratic company, indeed, but he would have John. In the end, he was far better company. Sherlock turned to John, his gaze heavy with the weight of all that was upon them. "Tomorrow we begin anew." 

Despite himself, John felt emotions rise and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck to weep. Sherlock held him, murmuring platitudes that he had always despised. It meant something to John, knowing he was giving up a part of himself to ease his pain. "Do not doubt my love," he rasped, fingers curling into the softest of dark curls. "I would give the world for you. I weep because you will not have the life you want anymore. I am sorry." 

Sherlock made a low, dangerous sound. "I have had enough of your sorry nature. I would have no other life. Without you, it would have been inexorably dull. The everyday tedium becomes bearable when with those one loves." 

John was not in a mood for argument and was beginning to believe Sherlock. Perhaps they would have a happy life, as long as they were together. Most exhausted, more than any man could say, John slumped against Sherlock, wiping away the remnants of his tears. "Let us rest until tomorrow, then." The two of them dressed for bed, but were unable to find sleep. They tossed and shifted constantly, cooped together in John's bed. He preferred the proximity, even if it proved a discomfort. 

John let his fingers trail up the back of Sherlock's neck, curling into damp hair. The summer's heat was on them well. They might settle in winter, he thought absently. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock shushed him, his kiss sweet. "Until the morrow." His voice was rough and affected by sleep. John smiled, hoping he could keep that bright shine in Sherlock's eye even as their possible years together passed by. 

\---

Their morning came unbidden as the sunlight woke John first. His eyes cracked open, crusted with sleep. He spent some time rubbing away the sandman's work, and then turned to look at Sherlock. He was sleeping peacefully, the lines of worry that had previously decorated his face nowhere to be seen. Sherlock took no notice of his waking so John let himself gaze at his beloved and the almost childlike innocence found t here. 

_He truly appears very young,_ lamented John. He brushed stray curls from Sherlock's brow, and froze when he twitched and sniffed. When he was certain he was deeply in his sleep, John carefully carded his fingers through the soft curls for as long as time would allow. 

Endless time later Sherlock woke. He lifted himself up quickly, like a man who was afraid of something just behind him, and looked about wildly before his eyes settled on John. "I had the most peculiar dream," said he, yawning away the morning's sleep. 

"Had you?" Said John absently, momentarily caught in the depths of his eyes. To think their brilliance might change, grow dull as time wore on them. Sherlock frowned, omniscient whenever it came to John. 

"Will you continue to dwell in the past, or shall we move out of bed? We have little time for idleness." 

John reluctantly agreed and climbed out if their small haven together, readying himself for the long journey. "Would like to share your 'peculiar dream?'" 

"I was running," Sherlock said, immediate. "The both of us were running for our lives from people we knew. Some of them I swore to have never seen before, but in my mind they were our loved ones. It was unsettling," he concludes. His hands did not shake and his voice was even, but John wondered how truly frightening it must have been.

"I have only seen Mycroft Holmes few times, and he is already terrifying." His attempt to lighten their serious mood received a small smile and a sparkle of humour in pale eyes. 

"I can assure you everything you suspect is probably true. He is very fat and very lazy, but he is of the likes to never to be contended." Sherlock finished dressing, wishing he could bathe before they left. "Let us not dawdle; our carriage will not wait indefinitely. It is eight; I told him nine. Hopefully the news has not reached far." 

Excitement and fear both washed through John like the waves of the sea. He did not know of Sherlock, but _he_ was shaking with feeling. He gathered his things with unease and trepidation, wanting to delay their passage to the last second. "Do you think we will ever come back?" He inquired. 

Sherlock turned to him and expressed his disbelief. “It is doubtful even my brother could quell the hatred of humanity.” 

A knocking came at the door. Both men froze on their feet, gazes snapping to the doorway. The knocking repeated and John slowly moved forward, gun on his belt. Certainly they were not coming just yet? If it was to be so.. John would sacrifice another human being to save Sherlock. Resolve strong, he opened the door as calmly as he was able to manage. 

“Captain John Watson and Mr. Holmes?” The courier nodded his head and held out a small sealed letter. John felt a strong sense of deja vu and took it warily. 

“Who sent it?” Sherlock thundered from behind him. The courier jumped and smiled in the nervous manner attributed to one who wasn’t certain what was going on. 

“Mycroft Holmes, m’lord, sir.” 

Sherlock’s frown was deep as he took the letter gingerly, like it might have been poisoned. John bid the courier a goodbye after discovering no reply was necessary, and they gazed at the fine parchment together. “Open it,” John said after some time. His heart could not handle the nerves this letter brought on. Sherlock nodded and fetched the letter-opener from John’s desked. He then ripped it open to avoid prolonging what was no doubt to be painful, and carefully opened the folded letter until they could both read with ease.

_Dear Brother,_

_A small, private ship will be waiting for you at the docks. I have taken the liberty and stored your most precious goods on board already. They are a trusted crew with an excellent captain. I will await news of your arrival._

“Mycroft Holmes” was signed in flourish, and John felt a mad sound escape past his lips. “Your brother, of the highest social status, is helping his vagabond brother escape from the clutches of the law,” he stated. Sherlock, for once, did not berate him for it. 

“He just hopes for something to hold over my head.” Despite these words, a small smile twitched onto his lips. He would need to thank him in some way. “I do believe it is time to go, John.” They gathered their belongings, and with a final goodbye to John’s home which had been his own for so long, departed.

\---

The ship’s captain was a man of strong countenance, a hardy personality, and exactly the type of Mycroft’s pick. 

“Captain Lestrade, at your service.”

**Author's Note:**

> I tried and therefore no one can criticize me.


End file.
